Speed Dating
by AlanAlexHolc
Summary: Chuck and Bomb have managed to drag along their red-headed friend to a night of speed dating. Red is beginning to regret ever leaving the house and it only worsens when he meets a blue-eyed girl who can see right through him. How will the rest of the night turn out? RedxSilver Human au. Rated T for heavy swearing. Enjoy!


**This is probably the second or third time I've done this, but I am reposting this revised version of the story. It's nothing drastic, just a few grammar fix ups that were bothering me. I'm really sorry. You don't have to read this again if you don't want to, it'll just make more sense than the first few times. Again, I'm sorry and I'll work on my grammar skills more. Anyway, back to reading. **

Do you ever go out and meet another human being and immediately realize why you hated social interaction so much in the first place?

Yeah. Welcome to my shitfest of a world.

I mean, come on! Speed dating? Fucking speed dating?! It's just the worst!

Allow me to shed some light on the subject: Whatever sorry excuse of a wiseacre had invented such a loathing activity must've been living in their mom's basement like the piece of shit they are, begging for the attention of a significant other. And in a desperate attempt of not living the rest of their miserable life alone, they formulated a way to do just that. And let me just say, they did a really shitty job at it.

I know, I know. I'm being too hard on them (not like they don't deserve it). And everyone has their own thoughts and opinions on this particular topic. I'm just stating mine.

The fact of the matter is that speed dating is nothing but a break. A short, temporary break from one's tireless job and the depressing time in between. The break is only 15 minutes long and in small doses, you receive some of the much-wanted attention everyone craves.

But am I wrong when I say that speed dating is fucking stupid?

No. No, I am not.

I watch as the mass of people continue to trek back and forth between tables in high hopes of meeting "the one" (as if), drinking their beverages and chatting away. Across the room, Chuck and Bomb each have a woman sitting across from them, both laughing and smiling oh-so charmingly to woo said women. No one comes over to my table.

No! I _do not_ have a problem with that. I _do not_ feel the slightest bit of disappointment every time a girl walks by without so much as a glance. And I _do not, _repeat, _DO NOT _want some random chick to come up and talk to me as if they're actually interested in me. That a single girl on this goddamn island would ever find me worthy of their time, let alone attractive.

I'm stuck here. As much as I want to get the hell out of here and lock myself up in the confines of sweet solitude, I am being watched like a hawk. Once every few minutes, Chuck and Bomb check to see if I'm still in my seat, peering over their shoulders every now and again. And each time, I send cold daggers through my eyes. They immediately turn back to the new woman in front of them, pretending I hadn't caught them monitoring me.

Besides, Chuck hid my house keys and I am not going to give him the satisfaction of making me plead for him to give them back. Unless they both become too engrossed in their conversations of enacting a dating life to remember that I even exist, I'm not leaving any time soon.

I mean, it's great that they're having fun and whatnot. And I guess it's nice of them that they thought to bring me along (in spite of my best efforts) like the good friends they are. They mean well, and I truly appreciate it.

But speed dating?! Really?! They couldn't think of anything else to do in our sparse free time? Mini golfing, hiking, even a movie marathon? They couldn't think of anything else but engaging with other people out and about for a love partner?

I throw my head back in aggravation, groaning slightly. The more men and women that pass my table, the more I want to crawl in a hole and hide for the rest of eternity. The only good thing that has come out of the entire night is half-priced drinks, and even those aren't all that great. Next time, I'm getting the jalapeno margarita.

Jesus Christ, will this ever end?

"Okay, burgers, pizza, or just garbage from a dumpster?" A voice in front of me suddenly says.

I shoot forward, startled to see that a young woman has materialized before me.

Where the hell did she come from?!

I take in her appearance in the few seconds I have to compose myself: Thin frame; wispy blond hair, almost silver, weaved into two long braids; turquoise eyes too large for her face beam radiantly behind feathery bangs, lightly bronzed skin, tiny nose. She wears a semi-formal, clean white blouse, the top two buttons undone. I can see the curve of her collarbone peeking from behind the thin material of her shirt. Pretty.

WHAT THE-WHAT THE FUCK? Did I just think that?! Did I just fucking think that?! Did I just think of someone else as pretty?

A word that doesn't even fucking exist in my fucking vocabulary?!

It's okay it's okay it's okay. It's all good. It's okay. It's okay…

It's okay if I think she's pretty, which I _don't_! It means nothing. Absolutely nothing. I could walk by any other girl on the street and find them just as pretty as her.

See? Normal.

Okay. It's okay, it's okay.

Breath! Breath you fucking moron before she thinks you're having a fucking stroke!

"I'm sorry, what?" I ask quickly. I try to ignore the near-meltdown that practically fried my brain to a scorching crisp. Not as easy as you think.

"Favorite food, silly." She responds lightheartedly, smiling sweetly. "Don't think. Just answer from your gut. Go!"

"Um. Uh, toast?" I answer with the first thing that comes to mind.

"Okay." She repeats, a little reluctant.

What the hell? This lady just shows up out of nowhere and expects me to what? Answer?

And as if that isn't crazy enough, I nearly lose my marbles all because I find myself attracted to her.

If I ever get out of this alive, Chuck and Bomb are going to regret ever bringing me to this stupid shithole.

She takes a pencil that just so happens to be in her hand and jots down some notes from what has to be a sheet of paper pinned to a clipboard. "Toast." She whispers under her breath, the lead of the pencil running over a dotted line in smooth strokes.

What the hell is going on? Is this how speed dates are supposed to go? Am I supposed to be asking questions and taking notes too? I wouldn't know. It's my first time.

She looks back up. "Favorite color?"

Answer the fucking question, you idiot!

I'm just about to answer when she interrupts me.

She pffts through thin, pink lips. "Stupid question. Red, duh." She indicates to my weathered hoodie.

Let's get something straight. Just because my hair, hoodie, and name-_my fucking name-_-are all Red, doesn't automatically mean I like the color. It's not like I got to choose my name or hair color, and the only reason why I'm wearing this particular hue of a garment is because everything else I own is in the middle of being washed.

As you can obviously see, I'm already starting to get pissed off. And in the goddamn middle of this damn speed date.

Great. Just fucking great.

"If you could have one superpower, what would it be?" She now asks.

"Um, to disappear, like, right now," I remark snarkily like the asshole that I am.

Can you blame me?

Oh, come on, guys! Would you like to be poked and prodded with random questions like this is more of an interview than anything? And by some random, _not _pretty stranger?

Uh-huh. I didn't think so.

"Okay." The woman states uneasily.

As she continues to write, all I can think about is how weird this is. Not anything in particular, but just… her! Her, a woman who showed up out of with her little form, asking question after question and expecting me to keep my cool as if I'm not the bastard child of the town. Like I'm not the totally fucked up person that I am.

Seriously? What next?

"What do you do in your free time?"

Okay. Better question. It's more specific, engaging. I can work with this.

"Yeah, I mean, I don't really have any free time." I voice, more calmly than my last response.

And that's when I realize…

_"You motherfucking jackass! What the fuck is wrong with you?! She doesn't fucking know! She doesn't know that your the bastard child of the town. She doesn't know shit about your fucked up life, dammit! Be a goddamn human for once in your miserable life! She is asking questions. Stupidly simple questions and all you can do is act like the ass you are! Get your fucking act together!"_

It's like a slap to the face.

I reprimand myself internally as I continue to speak. "I've been pretty busy applying at different colleges and working at the local birthday services, and that's a full-time gig, so yeah."

"I thought I heard something about it shutting down." She retorts.

Oh yeah! Did I forget to mention that the place I work at is facing bankruptcy and is fighting tooth and nail to stay in business? Or more specifically, _I'm _fighting tooth and nail to keep it in business?

Yes? No?

Huh. Must've slipped my mind.

So, yeah. For the past two months, I've been trying to save the small birthday service company of this little rinky-dink little island from going out of business. Not because it's my dream job or anything-far from it in fact-but just so I can stay employed long enough for me to get more paychecks before being sent off to a university, that is if I get accepted.

"Ha, ha! No. Shutting down, no. That's not gonna last." I answer because it's the positive thing to say. I tend to do the opposite. Or at least that's what I've been told. My anger management instructor Matilda worked with little to no avail to try and "fix" my tendencies to lean on the more negative side of situations. She even tried to get me to say nice things about the "exotic statues" back at her place. It didn't work out well.

"Well, you'll have a lot more free time now that nobody needs you anymore, so…" says her.

For some inexplicable-_painfully _inexplicable reason-hearing such a thing as being not needed burns, as if her words were a sizzling hot poker to exposed flesh. And saying it so casually makes it seem all the more surreal. Like I'm not of any worth, that no one needs me or my services.

Definitely not something you want to hear, especially from a total stranger.

"Okay. We are done here." I furiously shove myself back and stand to my feet, my chair tumbling to the floor with a muted clatter of its wooden legs. I don't pick it up. I start to head for the door, feet stomping through the thicket of lush grass.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuuuuuucccckkkk! Jesus fucking christ, what the hell was I thinking? What the actual hell was I thinking?!

Meet a pretty girl, talk, maybe go on a second date, another and another, fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after?

Was that what I was wanting? To live a picture-perfect life? To find a significant other through fucking _speed dating _and possibly get hitched and have kids of my own?!

The thought of such a thing clouds my vision with red, whether from anger or disconcertion I don't know.

"Are you afraid to talk about your feelings?" The girl calls after me, nearly yelling.

I whirl back to her in the smack middle of the outdoor restaurant, fiery bubbling and boiling into a spewing kettle of rage. "You know, just because I don't want to talk about them doesn't mean I'm afraid." I return heatedly.

I can feel every person's eyes watching us, their gazes boring into my very soul. I absolutely refuse to return their stares.

The young woman follows after me, clipboard and pencil in tow. She walks till she is a full foot away. She stands a full two inches taller than me.

"Okay. So avoids personal questions. Unusually angry." She lists to herself, continuously writing.

Avoids personal questions? Unusually angry?

Is she- Is she talking about me?

Oh ho ho. Two can play at that game.

"Talks to herself," I say.

"Self-esteem issues." She mumbles.

"Doesn't answer her own questions. Left-handed. Probably a witch." I comment.

"Looks like we're definitely incompatible." She states. She turns the face of the clipboard to me, the white sheet of paper scribbled with neat words hastily written in blue pencil. She points to a large insignia of 23% with her half-used eraser, the word "incompatible" boldly circled.

"Oh, and you needed a form to tell you that," I respond ever so sarcastically.

Seriously, though. Did she really need a form? Wasn't it obvious from the start that in any case, we would bump heads at every corner? That it would be near to impossible to work with someone so probing and intellectually annoying, let alone try to love?

Guess not.

"Okay. I hope you have luck annoying the next guy," says me.

"I don't need luck. I have a formula." She returns, seemingly unfazed. She taps the thin wooden slab of wood clutched in her with the end of the pencil. Confident, and surprisingly certain.

"Okay. Have a nice life."

"Have fun being alone."

"Oh, I will."

I do a full 180 and finally, _finally _burst through those doors. I walk away from my friends who had dragged me here, away from the attention-seeking individuals, away from the half-priced alcoholic drinks made by an inexperienced bartender, and away from the woman with the pencil and clipboard.

I don't care if Chuck is keeping my keys captive. I can climb through a fucking window for all I care. Just as long as I can suck in the sweet, sweet silence of isolation like a dry sponge deprived of water.

I shove my hands into the pocket of my hoodie, scowl etching into my face. I kick at a rock in the middle of the dirt road and watch it as it skids a few feet in front of me.

"Aw. There he goes, like a ship in the night." the woman holding this event says to no one, in particular, seeing that she is alone, but all too loudly for me to hear. "No rudder, no purpose, no crew. Well, have a good night." She ends all too cheerily.

Yeah, thanks. Thanks for that.


End file.
